"We must wait a minute or two for Sir Charles," said our hostess. "Everyone
else is here," and she beamed around the room.
The various _mauvais quart d'heure_ dialogues that this speech had
interrupted were resumed, most of them switching on to the question of
punctuality. And then a cab was heard to stop outside and after a minute or
so, presumably spent in financial transactions, the bell rang and the
knocker knocked.
"That's Sir Charles," said our hostess; "there he is;" and a few moments
later the guest we all awaited so fervently was in the room, full of
apologies.
"Never mind why you're late," said our hostess, "I'm sure you couldn't help
it. Now we'll eat," and once again a dozen Londoners fell into ark-
approaching formation and moved towards repletion.
The party was familiar enough, after certain solvents of speech had been
applied, for conversation to become general; and during the _entrée_ we
were all listening to Sir Charles telling the famous story of the eminent
numismatist who, visiting the British Museum, was taken for a thief. By way
of making the narration the more vivid he felt in his pocket for a coin
with which to illustrate the dramatic crisis, when his expression became
suddenly alarmed and fixed.
"Good heavens!" he said, fumbling nervously all over his clothes, "I've
given it to the cabman. Of all the infernal idiocy! I knew I should. I had
a presentiment that I should get it muddled up with my other money and give
it away."
"What was it?" he was asked.
"Was it something very valuable?"
"Was it a rare coin?"
Murmurs of sympathy made a low accompaniment.
"It was a goldmohur," said Sir Charles. "A very beautiful coin of the
Moguls. I keep it as a kind of mascot. I've had it for years, but left it
behind and it reached me from India only this morning. Having come away
without it I sent a cable for it to be forwarded on. And now! It's the
rottenest luck."
"What was it worth?" our hostess asked.
"Not very much. Thirty pounds perhaps. But that isn't it. The money is
nothing--it's the sentimental associations that make the loss so serious."
"Well," said a practical man, "you needn't despair. Ring up Scotland Yard
and ask them the best thing to do."
"Did you take the cabman's number?" some one asked.
"Of course he didn't," our hostess replied. "Who ever does a thing like
that?"
"As a matter of fact," said Sir Charles, "I sometimes do. But this time, of
course, I didn't." He groaned. "No, it's gone for ever. The cabman will see
it's gold and sell it. I wouldn't trust your modern taxi-chauffeur with
anything."
"If you would feel any happier," said our hostess, "do telephone now."
"No," said Sir Charles, "no. It's no use. A coin like that would never be
surrendered. It's too interesting; even a cabman would realise that.
Umbrellas they'll take back, of course--umbrellas and bags, but not a
goldmohur. He'll either keep it to show his pals in public-houses or have
it fixed up as a brooch for his wife."
As Sir Charles finished speaking and once more turned gloomily to his
neglected plate the knocker was heard again to knock, and then one of the
maids approached her mistress and spoke to her in low tones.
Our hostess brightened. "Now, Sir Charles," she said, "perhaps you'll
revise your opinion of our taxi-drivers. Tell Sir Charles what it is," she
said to the maid.
"If you please," the maid began, "there's a cabman at the door. He says he
brought a gentleman here and----" Here she faltered.
"Go on, Robins," said her mistress.
"If you please, I don't like to," said the girl. "It's so--so----"
"I should like to hear it exactly," said Sir Charles.
"Well," said the maid with a burst of courage, "he says there's a gentleman
here who--who bilked him--who passed a piece of bad money on him in the
dark. Here it is," and she handed Sir Charles the goldmohur. "And he says
if he doesn't get an honest shilling in exchange for it he'll have the law
on him."